Archives for May 2015

I’ve been tiptoeing around the edges of this blog for a while now. I brainstorm nearly every day with friends about topics and project ideas. I have draft upon draft sitting in a folder, stories waiting to be told but becoming less relevant with the passage of time.

It’s been so long since I have blogged that I have not been sure how to get back into it. It seems so disingenuous to tell all of you how much I wanted to die and then six months later come back with a review for an obstacle course race (which is what I did). It is not like me to act as if nothing ever happened. And those that have been following me deserve better than that.

I think that’s the hard part about being a storyteller and dealing with depression. The stories I have to tell about my illness will likely hurt those who have helped me to heal. It’s not because I want to hurt them – nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, it’s just the rehashing and re-opening of wounds that might cause pain. The thing is that these stories, as painful as they might be, they need to be told. They are the tattered pieces of roadmaps that might guide you in loving and supporting someone with depression. That is so important to me. And I can only hope that those who have been with me through all things awful and good will understand the need for transparency.

All too often though, the stories are not told out of fear. Fear of shame, angering or hurting others, losing even more than we have already lost. The idea of losing more than I have so far, it terrifies me. Because what I have left, I care for it so deeply and cling to it, not as if it is, but knowing it is life itself. I’ve been very open with my struggle but I have chosen to be vague about how my illness has effected relationships with others. I have been very, very lucky that once I spoke up about needing help, people listened. I was fortunate that I did not alienate people when I withdrew. If anything, once I spoke up, I strengthened relationships that had been struggling due to my inability to reach out to those that love me.

Chances are that if you spoke up, you’d have the same experience. So speak up! SAY SOMETHING!

And that is what I will preach to you and continue to preach to you even in spite of something revolting that happened to me a few weeks ago. Something that was so gross that I couldn’t not talk about it.

Please bear with me while I give you some backstory.

It got worse and worse and worse. And I tried to be tolerant. Then I got fed up. Then I blocked her on all points, including my phone, and the harassment continued through her emailing, texting, and messaging others about me. Then I got annoyed.

The thing is that I know myself really, really well. If I’m being an asshole, I know I am being an asshole and I am generally doing it on purpose. Despite the fury I can unleash on a person, I am very sensitive and sensitive to others. Basically what I’m saying is, that if you want to project on me, go ahead. But I know this game really well and I won’t let you get away with it. This is otherwise known as psychology 101. And as much as I want to preach tolerance to those who are so very obviously mentally ill, I will not be Saint Kelly, Martyr of those that choose to forgo counseling and medication.

So you can imagine that when this person chose to mock my depression and history of suicidal thoughts, I was absolutely done with her fuckery.

I went from bemused and annoyed to fucking pissed.

It is never a good idea to let me reach the level of ‘fucking pissed’.

If you know anything about me, you know that I have an amazing sense of humor. I find the most off-color, offense, and sickest things funny. I don’t guffaw about them behind closed doors, or giggle coquettishly with my hand covering my mouth and batting my eyelashes. I am not embarassed or ashamed by life, and even sometimes death. Both are painful, searing and sometimes downright funny.

I mean, really, people are ridiculous and fucked up. And if you can’t find the humor in a potato committing suicide via a potato peeler…

then I would present to you that you are seriously and abundantly uptight.

And the writer in me (half-assed as I may be) finds this hilarious

(in fact, tonight when my husband came upon me writing this post he pointed to the comic, seeing it on my screen – but not yet reading it – he saw a couple and he said ‘look! that’s you and me!’ I found it fucking hilarious. He didn’t realize. And that made it comically perfect in the context of this topic.)

When I think of death and life and the ridiculously short amount of time we have to experience so much that this world has to offer, I can’t help but roll my eyes and say

For as much as life can be amazing and joyful, it is equally torturous, and painful, inexplicably overwhelming. Crushing to the point that some mornings I wake up and I simply cannot deal.

As I have shared in previous posts, I have dealt with depression my entire life. I can remember bouts of depression as early as six or seven years old.

I recall feelings of worthlessness before I even knew what my worth meant to the world. I remember wanting to kill myself in the fourth grade. I was nine years old.

I am chronically and clinically depressed. I am the face of mental illness.

#truestory #atleast300daysayear

However, my mental illness is as much my personality as it is my disorder. It does not mean that I am ‘crazy’, unforgivable, unlovable, or even unlikable. Yes, there are people that think those things about me. I am okay with this because admittedly, and frankly, I have a somewhat abrasive personality. I am bossy, a slacker, unreliable to a somewhat annoying level; and to a degree, eccentric, pushy, mouthy, whiney, opinionated, acerbic, tortured and unabashed. However, at my core I am a good person and despite all of my faults, I have the confidence to know that my good traits and actions shine through.

(There are lots of examples but in deference of revealing my unappealing narcissism, I will impart my good traits for you to assume. Just know that I’m pretty fucking awesome. At least 400 people on Facebook agree!)

Anyway, after some many weeks of quiet, suddenly Team X assumed a wrong-doing on my part after someone left a comment on her blog. (I pinky promise, cross my heart and hope to die that I didn’t leave said comment. I have not and will never comment anonymously on anything). Team X set forth a Twitter war. And I was all ‘GAME ON, MOTHER FUCKER!’ until she chose to make light of my depression and bout with suicidal thoughts.

First of all, I am unsure of how my confessions of soul-shattering sadness have anything to do with my integrity and honesty. Perhaps because I didn’t follow through with driving my car into a dump truck on the highway in order to kill myself and my in-utero child? That’s some real compassion being represented there, I tell ya.

Second, like I said, I know who I am. I am very much aware of my faults and my endearing points. I know very much who I am, where I’ve been and who I will continue to be, in spite of criticism. So these words don’t hurt me. Especially since this person could not even get her facts right. I was suicidal over the fall and winter of 2013. I did not relay my story to her – the story she attempted to betray and use against me – until February of 2014. But I digress….

Her words do not hurt me.

But her attempt at mocking and shaming is not any less disgusting and troubling to me.

What does concern me, what makes my heart ache to it’s core, is the idea of the numerous people within our blogging community that saw her deliberate scorn over my illness (that is no more my fault than catching common cold). Her comments make me fear for the people that were toeing the threshold of asking for help but feared the potential mockery for doing so. The people that desperately need any ounce of kindness to make it through tomorrow but are fearful of judgement and ridicule.

Let me say this loud and clear to those of you reading:

Whether we have had even an ounce of animosity or perhaps even we are the best of friends, or maybe I don’t know you at all; I will be your sounding board. I will be your soft place to land. I will absorb your pain without malice in my heart and I will guard your pain and secrets as if they were my own. I will protect your heart, your feelings, your fear, as if they are my children.

To those that doubt me, I invite you to challenge my fortitude. Because I would sooner die than mock your struggle with mental illness. (Unless of course you want to be an unrepentant asshole. Then you get what you get. Because no one deserves to be abused and you aren’t allowed to abuse others just because you feel shitty.)

And I invite you to tell your story…I invite you to #saysomething.

Our silence with this struggle as victims, and this struggle as witnesess of mental illness, it means nothing without our testament. Without each other, we will never rise out of the darkness and the shame.

If you’ve ever needed help or been in the position of wanting to give help, I would like to encourage each of you to tell your story. What would you like people to know about your struggle? How can someone help?

If you would like to offer yourself as a source of support, feel free to leave your contact info of choice in the comments below. If you need support, reach out to the person that you feel a connection to.

Do you have a story to tell and would like some anonymity? I would be honored to publish your story here; you can email me at kjopson@gmail.com

Where ever you stand on the plain of mental illness, speak up, #saysomething. Don’t give up on us, we need you, and we need you to help us break through. Together we will create the light to lead others out of darkness.